We drove to the farm and visited, talked with Clarence, and picked up a few of the 30-caliber slugs. Then we went on to Albany where, in our naivete, we had made and appointment to see two agents of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. We were convinced that just their poking around in the country a bit might prevent further violence. They questioned us carefully about our names, addresses, denominational declension, and institutional affiliations. Inquiring just what our interest and concern in this local situation might be, they proceeded to explain to us that the FBI did not have to do with enforcing the law, but only with investigating possible violations, and that they could not honor our request to go to Sumter County. When we suggested that it would be difficult for them to conduct such and investigation without at least driving through the county seat, they said they had been shown no evidence which would lead them to think there had been any violation of federal law.

One of our party sat rattling and squeezing two of the steel tracers in his hand in Captain Quig fashion and offered the opinion that not every ordinary citizen owned a 30-caliber machine gun, the penalty for such possession being 10 to 20 years. And if someone did own one, perhaps he had shipped or smuggled it piece by piece for Guadalcanal or Korea. It was not your run-of-the-mill hardware which would sell you tracer bullets to fire in such a weapon, that also being frowned upon by national statute.

When we pointed out that it might not be mere coincidence that the firings always came late on Thursday nights, the night of the weekly drill of the National Guard and Army Reserve units, that it was remotely possible that the weapons were borrowed from the arsenals, used, and returned before morning, the FBI agents registered some annoyance that we were unaware of Mr. Hoover's adamant intent never to let the Bureau become a federal police force, that not being in keeping with the American way.

Driving back to Koinonia to report our shocking failure, we speculated on how Clarence would express his displeasure and disappointment. We teased one another about how the cock had crowed when three of our party had not wanted to involve the colleges where they taught. One said simply, "I'm a chemist," instead of "I'm a professor of chemistry," and another, "I'm a historian," while a third one, an Old Testament professor but not wanting to say "I'm an Old Testamentist," said, "I'm a theologian."

Clarence listened playfully to that and then we related every detail of the interview. After an hour or so of our excited chatter, Clarence pushed his chair back and yawned. "Uh-huh," he said. And that was all he said.

At the common supper he read to us from his Greek New Testament: "The theologians and the preachers plant their feet in the Bible...listen to them, but don't act like them, because they are forever talking and never doing...They strut in their robes and display their degrees. They love their seats at the speaker's table at banquets, and the pulpit chairs in the churches, and the backslapping at civic clubs. They like to be called 'Reverend"...It will be hell for you, theologians and preachers -- phonies, because you tithe your pennies, nickels, and dimes, and pass up the more important things in the Bible, such as justice, sharing and integrity. You ought to practice these without neglecting those. You addle-brained leaders, you fence in a flea and let your horse escape. You save you trading stamps and throw your groceries in the garbage."

Some of us had been told earlier by a New Testament teacher at one of the leading seminaries that Clarence Jordan was "a poor exegete." But somehow his translation seemed appropriate.

A rotund and saintly man named A.C. Miller, who directed the Christian Life Commission of the Southern Baptist Convention and had spent most of his life as a pastor in Texas, joined us. He said that he thought he had heard everything evil rationalized in defense of the faith, until he came to Sumter County. He disputed with me about which one of us would sleep next to the window and which one against the far wall in the room to which Florence had taken us. The window had been drilled with rifle fire some nights earlier, and Dr. Miller insisted that he was an old man already and I was young, and thus he should sleep by the window so that I might be protected.

Clarence, perhaps noting that my protest was less than enthusiastic, came into settle the disturbance. Running his hand over the outline of Dr. Miller's barrel-like belly, then motioning to mine (flat at the time), he said, "Now look. If a bullet comes through that window and A.C. is sleeping closest to it, it'll puncture his gut and Will won't be hurt. But if Will is closest to the window it'll go right over him and get A.C. anyhow. Now, as near as I can figure it, that's the situation. So you boys go to sleep."